The Goblin's Curse (5 page)

Janice dashed out of her shop, clutched her cap over her head, leaned backward, and gave a long silent scream. Then she ran back inside choking out the words, “Faire admin.”

Knot yowled.

“The day is getting stranger by the minute, Knot.”

A woman dressed in colorful skirts and scarves stepped past Keelie and pushed the shop door open a crack. “All quiet,” she hissed over her shoulder. Keelie recognized her as Sally, the tarot card reader whose popular shop was by the front entrance.

She also noticed that a crowd had gathered.

“Everyone’s getting inspected this year,” one grizzled man said. Keelie remembered that he’d been a pirate the year before. Then all voices stopped as a familiar female voice rose in anger.

“I don’t have time for your petty problems. We have to have the faire in order. I asked for an inventory. I get a scribbled sheet. Who are you, Leonardo? Is this a secret code?” The tirade grew louder, and the voice more familiar.

“The new faire admin,” whispered the old pirate.

No …
Keelie thought desperately. There were three Ren Faires in Colorado—no way she could be so unlucky.

The door to Janice’s shop banged open. Janice charged out, red-faced, her hair in wisps around her face, her cap gone. Close behind was the faire’s new administrator.

This was much worse than goblins.

Keelie staggered as the crowd shifted to allow Janice to pass. She strode rapidly up the path. Keelie watched her go, then turned to face her fire-breathing nemesis.

The new faire administrator was in fact her old boss from the Wildewood. Finch.

three

Keelie’s feet solidified on the ground, goose bumps of fear adding a physical element to her mind’s conclusion:
Run. Run as fast as you can.

Sylvus help them all.

The fairy girls she’d met at the pub were hovering at the corner of Janice’s shop, their faces frozen in fear. It was as if they’d seen one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse strolling through, searching for its next victim.

Before Keelie could bolt, Finch sighted her. She stopped and pointed. “You. Heartwood. Walk with me.” She turned to the boy and held out a sheaf of papers. “You, kid, take these to my office.”

The boy frowned. “I’m Eric the Bold.”

“You’ll be Eric the Bald if you don’t hurry.”

The boy raced away, papers under his arm.

“Don’t dawdle, Heartwood.” Finch marched up the path.

“Okay,” Keelie managed to squeak.

Sympathy flickered in Raven’s eyes. “Good luck,” she mouthed. “I need to go and help Mom.” She hurried away as if her pants were on fire.

Two fencing instructors, walking with a trio of belly dancers, darted to the side when Finch passed them in a blazing fury. “There is no fraternizing on my watch! Less cleavage, ladies,” Finch yelled as she passed them. “Heartwood, keep up.”

Keelie scurried to Finch’s side.

“I’m going to bloody kill whoever dared bring a motorcycle
into
the faire.” Finch came to a sudden stop in the middle of Ironmonger’s Way, then whirled around to glare at Keelie. “Do you know what the penalty is for bringing machinery into the faire?” She lowered her voice, as if it hurt her to say the words, and pounded her fist into her hands.

Keelie shook her head.

“Death.” Pivoting on her leather-clad boots, Finch strode determinedly toward her victim.

Keelie didn’t know whether to take this opportunity to run to Heartwood and stay there until the end of the faire, or to follow Finch. She didn’t want to witness what the faire administrator was about to do.

“Heartwood. Move it.”

No choice in the matter. Keelie ran after Finch. She had to jog to keep up—the woman could cover a lot of ground in a short time. Keelie kept an eye on Finch’s fists, which kept opening and closing as she stormed up the path. Booth owners paled as if a demon had erupted from the bowels of Hell and now walked among them, controlling their destinies.

A group of pirates in full garb stood outside the pottery booth, where they were teasing a new belly dancer who needed to rethink her attire. Keelie grimaced as she anticipated Finch’s reaction to the large sparkly green halter top, cleavage overflowing and on the verge of spilling out.

But Finch veered off the path. They were going to cut through the woods. The trees tapped into Keelie’s mind, their speech hivelike.
Who is this woman with the flaming hair?
They sent a rush of green energy to Keelie, and she sent them reassurance. She didn’t need freaked-out trees scaring the rest of the forest as she tried to keep pace with the draconic faire director.

Behind her, she heard jingling belly dance scarves, stomping feet, and occasional murmurs. Glancing over her shoulder, she discovered that the now eerily quiet crowd of pirates, belly dancers, and other faire workers was following them, flitting between the trees, hurrying to stay close. Most of them wore frightened expressions, but still they followed, swept along by macabre curiosity. There was nothing like a possible murder to brighten up the day.

They left the leafy woods path and stepped out into the hilltop clearing. The shop that had once been Galadriel’s Closet bore a rustic sign that proclaimed it to be the Flames and Skulls Forge, and in front of it was parked the largest, most beastly looking motorcycle Keelie had ever seen in her life.

It was shiny, covered in chrome, with gargoyle heads sculpted along the front of the handle bars and metallic ribs that formed a funky-looking frame. The midnight-black gas tank sported an airbrushed red dragon flying over a burning building. The motorcycle was as tall as Keelie. No wonder everyone had heard it roaring into the faire.

Finch growled. Keelie thought she saw small tendrils of smoke trailing from the faire administrator’s ears. Finch’s mother, Ermentrude, had a problem with smoking; she’d taken up knitting as a way of controlling her cravings. But knitting and Finch wouldn’t go together—yarn was too combustible.

The scent of smoke and metal wafted in the air as the crowd of followers trooped into the clearing. The silence was suddenly broken by the clanging of metal on metal. Under the forge’s shed roof, a broad-shouldered silhouette hammered over glowing coals.

Keelie saw Dad stop at the edge of the Heartwood shop, a rag tossed over his shoulder. She should be helping him polish furniture. He hadn’t spotted her. His eyes were on the forge, and on the angry faire administrator who looked as if she was about to change into a dragon and flame the place.

Hob came out of the mask shop and joined Dad. He looked even more handsome than before, if that was possible, and his blue eyes sparkled with mischief as he eyed the scene, seemingly pleased by the crowd. Then his gaze caught Keelie’s and he bowed his head slightly. She nodded in return.

“That’s a really big motorcycle,” Finch growled, although Keelie thought she heard a hint of admiration in her voice.

“And that’s a really big guy,” Keelie said, eyeing the figure in the forge.

The clearing rang with metallic peals as the smith picked up the pace of his hammering.

“Yeah! I’ll be able to take him.” Finch said to herself, as if readying for a challenge.

“Are you going to fight him?” Keelie asked. The crowd pressed closer.

Finch’s answer was a growled cry that sounded like a cross between an elephant and a wolf with a twist of dinosaur thrown in.

The clanging stopped, and a shadow stretched out from behind the Flames and Skulls. Keelie saw Vangar, the wild man from the Poacher’s Inn.

Today Vangar was bare-chested and wearing thick leather pants and boots fastened with rows of metal clasps. He carried a double-headed hammer marked with runic symbols, which he spun like a baton twirler in an impressive display of strength and dexterity as he approached Keelie and Finch. Keelie stepped back. But Finch stared the giant down until he grunted, dropped the hammer head to the ground, and leaned on the handle.

“Is this the welcoming committee?” Vangar’s voice was deep and rumbly like a volcano. His gaze swept over the crowd but settled on Keelie. She stepped backward trying to disappear. He’d know soon enough that she was his next-door neighbor.

Finch snapped her fingers. “Heartwood, now.” She pointed to the spot beside her.

So much for escaping. Keelie stepped forward.

Finch’s hair curled in tendrils as sweat dripped from her neck and forehead. Keelie wondered what that meant for dragons. She figured Vangar was sweating because of his hot work in the forge, since the day was still cool.

Finch gestured to the motorcycle. “What were you thinking? Do you need to be taught the rules?”

“Darling, don’t be so uptight.” The blacksmith smiled, looking her up and down appreciatively. “You’re a fiery wench.”

Darling. Fiery Wench
. Keelie wondered if Vangar had a death wish or was just dumb. She was going to have to keep Finch calm. She didn’t want the faire director transforming into a dragon in front of the human booth owners and faire workers. Some of them knew about the magical beings at the faire, but some didn’t.

A wave of heat rolled over Keelie. It was like being on a hot asphalt parking lot in July, and it was coming from Finch. She gripped Keelie’s upper arm tightly. Keelie winced but tried to give off soothing vibes, as if Finch were a tree.

Vangar smiled at Finch, revealing several gold teeth that matched his molten yellow eyes. “Darling, do I detect a temper?”

Finch squeezed Keelie’s arm even tighter. She bit her tongue to keep from screaming in pain.

“Mundane vehicles aren’t allowed on the faireground,” Finch said between clenched teeth. Keelie was pretty sure that whatever was going on was not about the motorcycle. She’d seen Finch swear and yell, but the woman seemed to be trying to hold herself in check this time.

“Babe, it’s a weekday, so what’s the big friggin’ deal? There’re no mundanes around to see my motorcycle. You need to relax. Wanna go for a drink over at the Poacher’s Inn?”

Finch turned several shades of crimson as she dug claw-like fingers into Keelie’s biceps. Time to intercede before she lost her arm. “The shop owners aren’t ever allowed to bring motorized vehicles into the fairegrounds,” Keelie gasped.

“Hell, I’m at the back of the faire, so how am I supposed to haul my metal and other supplies to my forge? Get a mule?” Vangar turned his molten gold eyes on Finch.

“You weren’t hauling materials on a motorcycle.” Finch leaned forward, her eyes sparking. “Didn’t you read the guidelines?”

There were whispered conversations going on behind Finch and Keelie. She caught snippets: “you know he’s right”—“why can’t we drive our vehicles onto the faire ground?”—“where can you get a mule?”

Finch whipped around and glared at the crowd, which immediately went silent. Her attention back on the blacksmith, Finch’s eyes flashed angrily. “I need your promise that you won’t do this again.”

“I think you came for a ride.” Vangar glowered at her, but Keelie thought she saw a hint of smile. The man was suicidal. “You’ll need to ask nicely.”

Finch raised her arched red eyebrows and laughed, a rusty sound. Keelie flinched. She’s never heard Finch laugh.

Vangar stood tall, hand on his hammer. His lips curved up and he leaned forward. “You’ll have to hang onto me.”

“Not likely. I’m going to pull your contract, and believe me, I’ll find something I can use to kick your leather-clad ass out of here.” Finch’s eyes narrowed.

“You’ll find everything in order. There is nothing that can close down my forge,” he answered confidently.

“I beg to differ,” a voice proclaimed from the crowd. The girls around Keelie sighed as Hob pushed his way through until he stood by Finch and Keelie. He regarded the blacksmith, who was head and shoulders taller.

“I think if you have three or more shop owners complain about the forge, then a vote may be taken to release you from the contract.” Hob spoke as if he were a lawyer.

“Aha!” Finch pointed at the blacksmith.

“I have concerns about the forge being so close to me.” Hob gestured toward his shop with its flammable,
papier-mâché masks. “What if it catches on fire? One random spark from the forge and I could lose everything.”